Words Of Wisdom
by calla lilly rose
Summary: Every now and then, even Superman needs help.  Oneshot.


All characters belong to SE Hinton. I own nothing. Except my car. I finally got that paid off.

**Words Of Wisdom**

XXX

"You done eating?" I ask my brother, watching as he picks at the leftover chicken still on his plate. At least he managed most of the corn.

"Huh?" he returns, looking up at me with a blank expression. What he was thinking I couldn't tell. Then again, reading his mind was never my strong suit. Sodapop is better at it, but I'd sent him off to work this morning. He'd protested, but I could tell his boss was at the end of his rope as far as Sodapop was concerned. He'd skipped work a lot last week. If he does it again this week he won't have a job to go back to. And at this point, we're swimming in debts so deep I don't know how we'll manage to ever get out.

"I said," I repeated, a little gentler this time, "are you done eating?"

He nods, setting the fork down carefully.

"Then go back to bed."

"I hate being in bed."

He lays his cheek in his hand, elbow propped on the table. His eyes are weary but I see them wince too. He's still hurting. He may hate being in bed, but right now, it's the best place for him.

"You heard the doctor, Pone. You need rest, and lots of it. Now go on and get back in bed."

"Do I really have to sleep? I ain't tired, ya know."

I stifle a groan and white-knuckle the back of the chair. "I don't care what you do, as long as your hind end is in that bed."

He looks at me, a hint of scorn in those green orbs.

"Go read a book, draw a picture, stare at the ceiling... whatever, but get to bed. Unless you've got to pee, poop or puke, I don't want you out of bed until dinner. Reading me, little buddy?" I stress the three p's, hoping he won't give me a hard time about it. I have other things to do around here besides standing guard over him.

"Yeah, sure."

He gets up and makes his way down the hall, fingers trailing along the wall producing a rubbing sound that makes me cringe. He never used to do that. I'd mentioned it to the doctor yesterday when he'd asked if Ponyboy was exhibiting any signs of behavior out of his norm. The doctor nodded, said it could be because his equilibrium might be off after getting kicked in the head so close to his ear. Trailing his fingers keeps him steady while walking and that he might continue to do that until his head heals up.

"Time will fix it," he'd said. I hoped so.

The springs of his bed squeak. Without looking, I know he's where he's supposed to be. I take the dishes to the kitchen and dump the remains of his lunch into the trash. It's disappointing. Since he woke up, he's not really been eating much. None of us have, not really. But Ponyboy's weight scares me. He's always been leaner than the rest of us, but now his frame seems thinner than ever. His clothes simply hang off him. Pajama bottoms and a t-shirt, but still... they used to cling more to him in the past. Now they look so much bigger, and him so much smaller. I sigh as I scan the fridge for cake, hoping Two-Bit left some. It might not be healthy, but calories are calories and at this point I'm desperate. I find the cake behind the beer and cut off a wedge.

"Hey Pone, I found..."

He's fast asleep, his head propped up on both his and Soda's pillows with an unopened book under his hand. I watch, his chest rising and falling softly, steadily. I set the cake down and pull a blanket even with his shoulders. I sit in the arm chair that is still in their room, watching him a little longer. I really shouldn't, I have so much to do... but I do anyway.

The bandage around his head is gone. Now that he's not bleeding from the small cut hidden in his hairline where his concussion is, it wasn't needed anymore. His cheek is still bruised; faint, but visible. The swelling on his lip has gone down too, along with the fading presence of cuts and scrapes on his knuckles and hands. I hope it all heals before the hearing. The rest of his many welts and bruises he can hide beneath long sleeves and pants, but he's no magician and the judge won't be fooled.

My own cuts and scrapes have mostly healed, but then again not too many Soc's were able to land anything on my face in the first place. Sodapop's a different story. That cut on his lip refuses to close and his cheek still looks rough. I shake my head. Any judge who takes one look at us would never think we're really a good bunch of kids. Nup. Hoodlums, thugs, leaches on so-called polite society. I've lost them. Maybe not yet, but if the court saw us right now, they'd snatch them away in a heartbeat. Already as good as gone.

I take the plate back to the kitchen and cover it with saran wrap, leaving it on the counter for him to eat later.

Dishes done, I finally tackle the screen door. The gang seems to think this is one of those fancy revolving doors they have in New York, yanking it open and letting it slam shut. They've all but torn the screen out and the bottom and top hinges are barely hanging on. I try to keep busy, tightening screws and bolts while thinking of anything but my kid brother laying in his bed not far from me. It doesn't work. The more I try not to think of him, the more I do.

I was just six when he was born. I remember it, sort of. It was hot, we'd gone to see Grandma in Kansas, and all of a sudden Dad takes Mom to the hospital. Next thing I knew I had another brother. He was so tiny, a lot smaller than Sodapop was. Dad told me he was early, but I didn't really get what that meant until years later. By then, I'd taken it for granted that he was ever in danger. To me, he was just Ponyboy.

I try the door. Still has that squeak, but at least it doesn't have that rattly slam anymore. I hope it holds up, at least until the next inspection. I don't know when to expect them now. Before all this happened, they were supposed to come this week. Now, with a scheduled court date looming, it might be postponed. Or, Ponyboy's doctor might have told the courts that any more stress on him would only make him worse. It's bad enough what I've done to him, but now he thinks he's responsible for Bob getting killed? That he can't accept Johnny and Dallas's deaths? How does a fourteen year old kid deal with everything that's happened to him without going insane at the same time?

I smack my thumb with the hammer and let out a muffled curse, tossing the hammer across the porch and watching it slide away. I'm angry. Angry at myself and angry at the world. I'm only twenty years old but I feel so much older. My back aches from the strain of carrying more than just roofing supplies all day. The real load I carry is so much heavier.

Yesterday I was at the grocery store, buying meat in the _reduced for quick sale_ freezer when I saw Denny down another aisle. He was a year younger than me in school but had a good arm and fast feet; we all knew he was destined for college. There he was, sure enough wearing a jacket emblazoned with a college mascot on the back. I couldn't help but notice how young he still looked, how happy, too. He had a six pack of beer in his cart and was loading it with steaks from the expensive freezer as if they were a nickel apiece. If that wasn't bad enough, I also saw his lady; quite a looker with shoulder length hair and perky tits. She was smiling at something he'd said.

For one minute I envisioned myself in his place; in college, playing ball, woman by my side, a great future mine for the taking. Then I came back to reality and moved to another aisle out of sight. He didn't see me and I liked it better that way. They eventually headed out and I finished shopping, using almost all my coupons to save what I could.

I leaned against a porch railing, trying to cool off. In the distance I hear the familiar sounds of a beat up car coming my way. I check my watch. Yup, I guess it's time for them to show up. The car pulls up across the street and the occupants climb out.

"Hey Dar, how's he doing?" Sodapop asks without stopping for an answer. He climbs the steps and heads in. Silently I'm pleased the door doesn't smack the frame this time.

"Sleeping, or at least he was." I don't bother to add the _try not to wake him_ part, knowing full well he will.

Steve follows inside as well but comes back out after a minute, handing me down a beer.

"How was work?" I ask, setting the beer aside. I'm not going to drink it, not risking having either social services or the doctor show up just to find me with alcohol on my breath.

Steve shrugs. "Usual. Lots of women tearing up the clutch, a few transmission issues, some flat tires. Gas, gas and lots of gas. Nothing we can't handle. So uh... how's ….." He looks at the window next to the porch, the one with the closed blinds and pulled curtain. He can't bring himself to ask, and I bite my lip to keep from smiling.

"He's doing better. Still not eating much, but better."

"He'll snap out of it," he says. I wasn't sure if he was asking or saying it though.

Inside, I hear the shower get turned on. Soda's routine may have changed a little, but he's still predictable. Come home, check on Ponyboy, shower, then either head out with one of the guys or hang out at the house.

"You gonna drink that?" Steve asks, the toe of his shoe nudging the beer.

"No. You know, Two-Bit's gonna have my head thinking I was the one drinking his booze."

He cocks a grin. "Like I'm worried about that?"

I just give him a not- so- humored look. He rolls his eyes and reaches for it. "Fine, have it your way. I'll put it back in the fridge."

He brings me back a Pepsi, one I drink too fast and end up belching from. Steve grins.

"Feel better?" he quips.

I chuckle. "Yeah, I guess I do."

Silence fills the void. My thumb circles the cold glass rim of the bottle while my eyes scan the distance. I don't really see anything. Steve, who's leaning against the house opposite me, nudges my leg.

"He's gonna be okay."

I look at him. His eyes are determined. I nod.

"In time. He will be."

"You're gonna be okay too."

God, I hope he's right.

XXX

Calla Lily Rose

Please forgive typo's. Thanks.


End file.
